Because Sherlock Holmes Needs to Pee in a Jar Again
by kaeyes
Summary: John finds Sherlock using again and decides to help the man the only way he knows how...whether Sherlock likes it or not. Rated T for drug use.
1. Part 1

"Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

John Watson had spat out similar words only several months ago upon finding the detective in a crack house. Now the same phrase flowed out once more, the same intensity of emotion giving the words their true force.

He visited Baker Street once a day, now, when he could, finally accepting that he was indeed addicted to a certain type of lifestyle. Normally he arrived before Sherlock was out of bed, and so he'd pass the time browsing websites and newspapers for another case to distract Sherlock from…

Well, from drugs. Yes, he knew now that Sherlock's drug charade was a façade designed to entice Magnusson, but had it been necessary for the needle to slip in his veins? For the long ago abandoned addiction to once return? For that beautiful mind to be needlessly wasted?

No. John knew that while the drug house was a convenient pawn against their enemy, the heroin was a mere perk. The last thing he needed—the last thing London needed—was for Sherlock to fall back into his habits.

So he would come over every day, only failing to show when Mary's morning sickness was erratic or the clinic absolutely needed him. For six weeks he'd been there when Sherlock awoke, always offering a case and fresh cup of tea.

Yet today, when he stepped into the dusky flat he still considered home, the two needles lying on the coffee table penetrated his vision as though they'd been shoved directly into his eye. Just beyond lay an unconscious detective who, from the looks of it, had been sleeping off his high for at least several hours.

At first John felt a twinge of satisfaction—that the hours spent here hadn't been a waste, that his suspicions had been correct—but it lasted no more than half a second before being replaced with irrevocable rage.

He quietly stepped into the kitchen, dialing Molly's number. "I need you at Baker Street. Now," he said, screaming through his whispered tone. "Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

Molly was on her way now. Though John had no doubt in his mind that the needles were Sherlock's, a lab result was infallible ammunition against any excuse the detective tried to make.

John stood over Sherlock's limp body, did all he could to suppress the urge to grab his gun, and yanked Sherlock up by the ear with enough force to nearly rip it off.

"Ow!" He awoke instantly and did his best to wriggle free, but the doctor's hand was set. His confused and wandering eyes searched the room for an explanation before landing on the needles before him. Oh.

"John, I can ex—"

John through him against the couch's back, only now releasing his ear. "Molly's on her way. How dare you, Sherlock? What were you thinking?" He grabbed a needle, apathetic to any biological threat it held, and shoved it in front of Sherlock's face. "No excuses this time. No explanations, no case requirements. You are _addicted_, Sherlock, and that's not going to go away until you let us help you."  
John watched as Sherlock's eyes darted, the sure sign that he was searching for a creative, believable reason why the needles were in his possession. But with Molly on the way, no solution presented itself.

"John…" Sherlock retreated further back into the sofa's cushions, all at once calling out for his doctor but distancing himself as far as he could. His eyes were red; from crying or usage, John wasn't sure. He really didn't care, not now, as the disheveled man before him cowered like a dog.

"You knew I was coming over," John said, his voice cracking. "You knew. You forgot to clean it up? Fell asleep before you could? Or…Sherlock." He waited for eye contact. Sherlock gave it, reluctantly, tears pooling in his eyes. "Were you trying to get caught? Is that your way of asking for help? Goodness, Sherlock, you know why I've been coming over. You know I've been worried. If you were anywhere near this stuff, tempted at all, you could have talked to me about it. You _knew_ that."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut; he was unable to comprehend the emotions pouring out of his friend. Not sure what to say.

"Just tell me why. Hmm?"

"I didn't…" Sherlock's voice was hoarse. "I didn't know what else to do. My mind, John, it needed…I just didn't know what else to turn to."

John stood, pacing, lost. How was he supposed to act in this situation? Maybe he was being too rough; the man had an addiction, a disease, and he needed help. Yet the thought of him—so well looked after, so showered with care (however new that was to him)—still turning to this instead of those nearest sickened John. Either way, getting the man into a rehabilitation center was an impossibility. There was only one way to offer Sherlock what he needed, and John wasn't going to take no for an answer.

"You're moving in with me and Mary. Come on. Let's get your stuff packed. Now."


	2. Chapter 2

"He's a sweetheart, isn't he?"

John raised his eyebrows and looked at his wife, then at the new problem spread over his couch. Mary sat at the dining room table, cozied up in her morning robe and sipping on a cup of tea. She smiled as Sherlock stretched, yawned, and curled tightly against the corner of the sofa, still unconscious after a long conversation the night before.

Mangled hair, red eyes, his own robe: John didn't see anything "sweet" about it.

"He just needs some love, John." Mary hugged her husband from behind and took in his scent. She could practically smell the worry seeping off his tired form. "You're just what he needs."

John sighed. The three-way conversation before bed had been a rough one; John demanded an explanation, Sherlock answered with silence, and Mary broke the stalemate by calling for sleep. Sherlock had immediately collapsed, but the couple sat in the kitchen and made a game plan before finally going to bed. Now, with day already half over, it was time to break the peace.

"Just don't let me kill him."

Mary kissed John and playfully hit him in the back. "Go on."

The doctor gently grabbed the detectives shoulder. "Sherlock. Hey. It's nearly one. We need to get around today."

"Mmmmmm." Sherlock groaned and opened a leery eye. "Do I dare ask where we're going?" He sat up and rubbed his eyes; John wondered again if the redness was from drugs or tears.

The doctor looked at Mary for a morale boost and cleared his throat. "We have a full day ahead of us. Alright? Why don't you hop in the shower?"

"John," Sherlock started carefully, "I know you're trying to help, but I have the worst migraine. Please. Let me sleep awhile longer and I'll swear to do whatever it is you have planned."

He shook his head. "A shower may help your head anyways. Go." Sherlock pouted his lip but John raised his hand. "I wasn't asking."

"At least…" Sherlock squinted from apparent pain; John wondered if the headache truly existed but decided not to show faith yet. "At least tell me what's planned, John."

"So you can decide if you want to participate? No." The doctor grabbed the detective's upper arm and led him to the bathroom, not bothering to slow down when Sherlock tripped. "Fresh towels are in the first cabinet. Don't take longer than fifteen minutes, we're on a schedule."

"But John—" Sherlock widened his gait and blocked John from pushing him into the restroom. "My head—"

"Your head hurts because you haven't had a _fix_ this morning," John bit, shoving him in with a soldier's determination. "Shower. Now."

Twelve minutes later the shower was finally running. John dropped onto the couch, having developed a headache of his own. "Mary," he called, and she was soon by his side. "What am I going to say? He won't go for it."

Mary stroked his arm gently and put her head on his shoulder. "No, he won't. But he doesn't have much choice. You'll say what needs to be said."

"Did we come up with the right plan?"

She counted the steps on her fingers. "We drive him to Mycroft's to get them talking. Nothing will be more effective at making his problem clear; no matter what Sherlock says, he cares about Mycroft's opinion. Then we cut him a deal—he can move back into 221B once he's been clean for two months. Mrs. Hudson's agreed to refuse him access, and Molly will continue testing him every other day. Lestrade won't let him on a case unless you approve it and one of us accompanies him. You've been managing his finances for months; you can easily put restrictions on his card." She turned John's head to face her own. "We've thought of everything. He'll get the help he needs."

John stared ahead, lost in thought. "I'll have to take off work. To look after him."

"We'll manage. He's worth it." She stood and went for her cup of tea. "Such a sweetheart."

"You keep saying that." John rubbed his temples and heard the shower turn off. "You've met him, haven't you?"

"Well he came here with you, didn't he?" She lowered her voice. "You're strong, John, but he could resist you if he really wanted to. You remember right before our wedding; he panicked at the thought of losing your friendship. He knows his addiction is a threat to that, so he's willing to recover. Not for himself—for what he has with you."

"That's what I'm worried about. I don't know that he sees the addiction as a threat." He heard Sherlock step out of the shower, shake like a dog—he always did that; why did he always do that?—and change. "Look at how often I'm at Baker Street." He sighed. "What if addiction is his latest tantrum for attention?"

Mary leaned against the table, hand on hip. "We're not here to cure the addiction. We're here to cure the man."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock curled up in the back seat of the car, complaining—among not knowing where they were headed—that he'd left his coat at Baker Street despite the unusual heat of the day. John hushed him, put the car in drive, and headed to Mycroft's. It took four minutes for Sherlock to realize where they were headed.

"He doesn't need to know. He _shouldn't_ know." The detective's voice was shaky, not carrying the usual demanding tone John had grown accustomed to.

"When I said you needed to let us help you, that included your brother. Be glad I'm not getting your parents involved. Besides," John said, attempting to make eye contact through the rearview mirror, "Mycroft, knowing him, already knows something's up."

Sherlock huffed and looked out the window. His hair was still wet from the forced shower of the morning; he wore a pair of jeans (John hadn't known he'd owned any, but decided not to question it) and an old t-shirt. He hadn't bothered to shave. Laziness or rebellion, John wasn't sure.

The rest of the drive was passed with silence and solitude, interrupted only occasionally by Mary grasping John's hand and offering a small squeeze. They arrived to the mansion soon enough, though John had to drag Sherlock by his arm to get him inside.

Mycroft met them in his library several minutes after their arrival; his right eyebrow raised immediately after seeing his little brother. "No suit today? My, you really don't want to be here, do you?" He turned his attention to John. "What is it this time?"

John took a seat on a very expensive looking couch and cleared his throat. Mary joined him; Mycroft sat in a chair diagonally and Sherlock remained standing, looking through titles of books as though he were alone.

"Sherlock is living with Mary and me at the moment," John began slowly. "As you know I've been visiting his flat frequently due to our…shared concerns. Yesterday those fears were confirmed."

Mycroft's gaze turned to Sherlock. It wasn't met.

"Of course we thought you should know," John continued. "We've come up with what we think is a pretty good solution; we wanted you to be present while we presented it to Sherlock so that…"

"So he can force me to comply," Sherlock broke in. The others looked over at him; he'd said it so low and was still facing the books with such interest that John questioned whether or not he'd even spoke.

"Let's hear it, then," Mycroft said. "Sherlock, sit."

No acknowledgement.

"I'm already disappointed beyond belief, little brother. Unless you'd rather have our parents join in on this conversation…"

Sherlock growled, spun lazily around, and plopped onto the floor. Mycroft sighed, annoyed though appeased, and motioned for John to continue.

"Sherlock will live with us for a minimum of two months," he said, addressing Mycroft but facing the detective. "That is, of course, if he remains clean."

"Make it three," Mycroft said. Sherlock shot him a glance and began to protest but apparently thought better of it; resistance, he knew from experience, would only be met with harsher terms.

"Three, then." John cleared his throat again and ignored the increasing intensity of Sherlock's glare. "Molly will test him several times a week. Mrs. Hudson won't let him into 221B without me; likewise, he won't go on a case unless I specifically approve it and accompany him. Scotland Yard has agreed."

"House arrest?" Mycroft asked.

"Without one of us, yes." John turned to Sherlock, waiting for eye contact. "I know it's harsh, but it's this or a facility. I'm taking off work as long as you stay with us. Mary and I are only here to help, as is your brother."

"I'm not addicted," Sherlock said, his voice having returned to the low and demeaning tone John was familiar with. "I've shot up only twice this month; before that I was clean since the day you broke William's arm."

"Sprained," John corrected; Mary shot him a glance.

"The fact is, dear, you're back on it," she said. "If you want us to believe the great Sherlock Holmes can quit whenever he feels like it, fine. You have the next three months to prove it to me."

"If the press gets wind—"

"Your brother will make sure it doesn't." John sighed and turned to Mycroft. "Know he's in good hands with us. If he misbehaves you'll be the first one we call."

"Yes." Mycroft put his weight on the umbrella and stood. "Join me in the hall for a moment, will you, John?"

The two left Mary and Sherlock behind, closing the door and stepping several yards away. John already felt odd having Sherlock out of his sight. "John, you do realize your wife is due to give you a child within the next month."

"Yes?"

"You've only two bedrooms. Not to mention that managing two children could be a bit hefty."

John shuffled his weight. "It's what he needs. I told Sherlock nothing would change when I started a family, and I meant it. He _is_ family. Mary and I have discussed it."

Mycroft offered a smile and pulled an envelope out of his coat jacket. "I hope it's the right decision, John. I do. Perhaps this will help with some of the expenses."

John opened the envelope and pulled out a check, nearly losing his balance at the figure. "Mycroft, I can't accept this."

"It will alleviate some of the burden."

"He barely eats. He wears the same three outfits, except for today. No." He attempted to hand it back but was denied.

"Consider it a baby shower gift, then. Now, John…" Mycroft hesitated as though unsure of what he was about to say. "All feuds aside, I want what's best for my brother. Hopefully this is it. However, in the event that he does relapse, I will insist that he come live with me. Permanently." He lifted his umbrella and tilted it towards the doctor. "With that in mind, I'm sure you'll do everything in your power to make sure that does not happen."

John tried to think of an excuse but came up short. Mycroft was right; if he wasn't enough to help Sherlock recover, Mycroft was the only logical next step.

He returned to his family. "Let's go."

Sherlock happily obliged; Mary walked beside John as they watched the detective practically race to the car. "You okay?" she asked. "What did he have to say?"

John looked at his best friend and knew, in that moment, he would do anything he could to keep him from going back to who he used to be. "We've found ourselves in a custody battle, Mary, and I'm not losing him."


	4. Chapter 4

John's eyes sprung open as his body jolted up. The smell of heroin, the darkness of night, the sound of forced silence. He felt Mary's slight touch as sweat beaded off his forehead and his dream faded into a haze.

"The war?" she asked softly, sitting up and fiddling with the light.

He shook his head and darted his eyes around the room. "Not this time." He shoved the comforter out of the way, swung the door open, and ran down the hallway with a soldier's determination, not bothering to explain. Not now. There wasn't time.

The couch was checked first. No detective. John turned on his heels and made a direct line to the guest bedroom. Sweat continued to form; he felt his palms slip on the doorknob as he struggled to twist.

"John, are you invading—" Mary began, no longer checking her volume, but she was too late. The door slammed open, John stepping in before it hit the wall, Sherlock jumping and covering his bare chest with a thin sheet.

"Where is it?" John's voice was gruff and thick, carrying the same force with which he had attacked Sherlock the first day he was back from the dead.

"What time—" The light flicked on as Sherlock's powder blue eyes tried to adjust. "What did I do?" His voice wasn't condemning, it didn't hold an edge of challenge. Just groggy confusion.

"Where is it?" John repeated. "How much did you bring?"

"Hold on, John, what makes you think he managed to bring a stash in here?" Mary stepped between the two and sat on the bed, placing a gentle arm on the detective's wrist. Sherlock accepted the gesture by curling up behind her. "You can't invade his privacy without reason."

"You don't think I have reason." It wasn't a question. The doctor set his eyes on the trembling form before him. "If you have something, tell me. Now. Don't make me search this flat like one of Lestrade's men."

"I have _nothing_." The edge had found its way, though he still hid behind Mary and a small tremor resonated in his pitch. "Think! Why don't you just _think_? You hovered over me while I packed."

John took a breath, making his first attempt at gathering his thoughts. He spoke quietly, trying to restore equilibrium. "Your jeans, Sherlock." The detective's face paled, and John knew. He knew he had him.

"He can't wear jeans?" Mary said, but she read the guilt on Sherlock's face the second she turned to him.

"We didn't pack any jeans, Sherlock, yet you somehow managed to find a pair today. How does that work? However unlikely, this is the only possibility, so it must be true. That's what you say, yes, one way or another? You smuggled a pair of jeans in my flat, so it stands to reason you've brought something else along with you."

The words hung in the air as Sherlock bit his lower lip. "Second drawer," he murmured.

John cursed under his breath as he moved towards the dresser and slid it open. And there it was.

He held the pack in his hand, felt its weight. It seemed all of Sherlock's skills were slipping. How had this substance—these few fine chemical compounds—turned the world upside down? How had someone so strong, so sure of himself, turned to this? The doctor—because, yes, right now, he was forever a medical professional alone, a bearer of hard facts—turned, walked to the edge of the bed, and kneeled down.

"This will kill you." He held the bag between their faces and lowered it, waiting for eye contact. "Not Moriarty, not Magnusson, not a brilliant criminal or a meaningful case. You will die, _Mr. Holmes_, because you chose to be beaten by _chemistry_. Because you chose to turn to drugs instead of those who have always, always been here for you. I refuse to help someone unless they want to change. Like our clients, I don't want you unless you're willing to accept reality. If you don't want to be here, leave. _Leave_. You make a decision, right here, and right now. I'll reverse everything I've done with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Maybe Mycroft will take me up on his threat and force you to move in with him. Or maybe he'll let you weed yourself out. Go back to your lonely life and never tell me or anyone else know what it is you're battling. Is that what you want?"

John stood and threw the pack at the detective. "We are here for you, Sherlock, if you need us. We want to help, but we're not playing games." He motioned for Mary to come to the doorway; she hesitantly complied. "I'm going to bed. Don't be here in the morning if you're not serious about finding a solution."

The speech was met with steady, steel eyes, eyes which did not falter as doctor and doctor's wife shut the door and retreated to their bedroom.

"It was the right thing, John," Mary said. "He needed to hear it."

John tucked himself into bed and stared at the ceiling. "I hope so, Mary. I do."

Two minutes later, John heard the front door slam shut.


	5. Chapter 5

John tried to follow Sherlock out the door and would have ran to the street if Mary hadn't stopped him. It was Sherlock's choice, she reasoned, and the ultimatum had to be honored.

Yet John's concession did nothing for his sleep. He lay facing the ceiling, eyes wide and heart full. The first hour was spent with phone calls; Mrs. Hudson was instructed to let the detective in if he tried, as well as to inform John at the first sighting. Lestrade and Mycroft were also phoned, though neither picked up. The remaining hours before sunrise were paced away.

Mary finally dragged him out of bed near seven; the doctor continued pacing and bouncing his leg, wondering what was left to do.

"No one's answered my calls," he said, his voice low as he took a cup of tea. "For all we know he's back at one of those crack houses."

"Worry never helped anything," Mary said, though she rubbed her hands together nervously.

John began arguing when he jumped at the phone's ring. He stared at it for a moment, glanced and Mary, and picked up.

"Hello?"

"Can you tell me," Mycroft's voice leaked through the phone, "why I opened my door to a disheveled detective wallowing in the rain at an ungodly hour this morning?"

John's mouth went dry. "He came to you?"

"Mm, yes. I highly suggest you make your way over. A car is waiting downstairs."

"Okay, fine, but is he okay?"

A pause. "I'll see you soon."

Mycroft greeted John in his dining room several minutes later. The massive dark oak table separated the two men, but the doctor could still make out the worry lines etching the brother's face.

"Where is he?"

Mycroft sighed and took a seat at the end of the table, tracing the top of a crystal glass with his index finger. "Knocked out in the master, thanks to several doses of sleeping pills. I saw my brother cry for the first time in ages, Dr. Watson, one of few sights that manages to unnerve me. I don't want it to happen again."

John set his jar. "I did what I thought was best. I had no intension of hurting him."

"You misunderstand me, John, I'm not angry with you. Sherlock collapsed on me before I even let him in the door and told me everything. He didn't come here because he found you unreasonable; I assume you see that. He's here because he feels he's too big a burden on your family. Here, I can throw money and public servants and high end professionals at him all day, but…" Mycroft trailed off, no longer looking at the doctor but past him. "I have a feeling that's not what he needs."

John lowered his head. "He knows we're all fighting for him, but I don't think he'll come back. His mind understands everything except this sort of thing."

"Yes, I suppose that's why he finds himself enamored by you." Mycroft pointed to the door behind him. "Down this hallway, seventh door on the right. Go talk to him."

He shuffled his weight. "I've said everything I can. He's heard it all. I need him to talk. I need to know what made him turn back to all this. He won't open up to me."

"Did you expect him to right away?" Mycroft stood and began leading him towards the room. "You're not his psychologist, you're his friend. Listen, even when he's not talking." He patted the doctor and walked back the way they'd come. "See yourselves out."

John grabbed the doorknob before he let himself think. The room was exactly as he'd expected—massive bed, ornate fixtures, brilliant lights. Yet the detective was not asleep, but sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed, flipping a cigarette lighter between his fingers and watching sleeping pills melt at its flame. His eyes widened and pulse quickened at the sight of John, but his lips sealed shut.

"I'm here to take you home," John said softly. "Not by orders. It's an invitation."

Sherlock's eyes stayed steady. He was donned in a thin white shirt and light grey sweatpants; his hand held the slightest twitch. "I _am_ home."

"If you'd like," John said, treading carefully. "I meant what I said last night, Sherlock. You are always welcome in my house."

Sherlock looked away. "I know."

"Why'd you leave, then?"

"Because you think you need to understand me to help me." He pulled back at the force of his own voice. "You think me a child, John, and I see why. At the moment I am helpless, and I am weak. But you've known me long enough, and you know my temperament. If you want to help me, fine. I admit I need it. Just don't expect to understand my reasoning and emotions."

John paused. "Thank you."

His eyebrows furrowed. "What for?"

"Talking. Explaining." John offered a half smile. "Okay. Tell me what you need, then. I won't ask why you're using or why you snuck drugs into my apartment. I'll just offer what you need."

Sherlock considered him for a moment. "Keep the restrictions you've placed. They're annoying, but they'll work. Just, please, don't keep me cooped up all day. Take me to the grocery store for all I care; I can't go stagnant, John."

"Okay…"

"Keep Mycroft away from me."

"Why'd you come here, then?"

"Where else would I have gone?" Sherlock checked his tone and looked at John immediately for forgiveness. Granted. "Basically, John, I just need you to distract me. Can you do this for me?"

John nodded. "I'll stay within your parameters, but we go by my rules. Understood?"

"It's… reasonable."

"Good." He opened the door and motioned his head toward the exit, surprised at how easy the exchange had gone. "Come on. Let's get you some food."

Sherlock shuffled. "Of course, I only say all this because I need your help with something else." He hesitated only a moment and pulled out his ankle, which was wrapped in a thick, heavy metal band. "It's a GPS tracker. Mycroft put it on."

John tried to hide a smile. "Oh?"

"He won't take it off until I've _proven_ myself." He flashed a pair of sad eyes. "Help me get it off?"

"No," he said, slowly, "I think I'll leave it on for now."

The detective's face fell. "Then I won't go with you."

"Fine. Yeah, great plan. Try getting anywhere out of Mycroft's sight with that tag. It's me or him, Sherlock."

An irritable but secretly satisfied detective climbed into the doctor's car just minutes later.


	6. Chapter 6

John looked at his rearview mirror, eying the detective who'd elected to sit in the back seat. Several raindrops had hit the windshield as he pulled out of Mycroft's driveway, and an infamous London downpour was now in full effect. Sherlock lazily watched several drops race down his door window.

"You should have taken those pills Mycroft gave you," John said, half his attention on the road. He left several distant claps of thunder voice their anger before he spoke again; the silence between wasn't awkward; no, far from it, the car was somehow warm, safe. The first glimpse of peace in the last few days. "Most people suffer from insomnia during heroin withdrawals."

Sherlock too waited before he spoke, apparently enamored by the storm. "I'm not most people." It wasn't a prideful statement. Just fact.

The doctor was cut off at an intersection but he didn't curse or show a certain finger like he normally would. His eyes instead scrunched in contemplation. "You haven't had any side effects, then?"

Thunder echoed, this time closer. Sherlock shrugged. "Irritability, lack of appetite, insomnia, restlessness. Sure."

"You have those every day," John quipped, a melancholy smile forming on the right side of his mouth. "I haven't seen you eat in ages."

The detective looked down, rubbing a palm over his arm as though carefully formulating his next words. "My mind is stagnating, John. Normally when I find myself unoccupied I manage to pass time by deducting which clerk Mrs. Hudson's been seeing or adding colognes and ashes to my blog. These are no longer at my disposal."

"We both agreed that you needed to stay at my place," John said slowly. "And I've already agreed to provide distraction. Even if that means reading me or Mary like a book." His eyes flicked towards the mirror. "Just don't be a jerk about it."

A longer pause. "No, that's not my point."

"What is, then?"

"Look at all these people on the sidewalks. Normally I could watch them for an instant and tell you what they did for a living or where they'd been all afternoon." His stoic eyes met John's as they stopped at a light. "I can't do it anymore. Nothing's coming through."

John opened his mouth to provide some medical explanation—that his brain was tired, that his body was just readjusting—but closed it as he noticed the smallest hint of a crack in his friend's voice. His very identity, although only temporarily, had vanished with all hopes of another hit. The craving had to be exponential, constantly growing with the realization that the only aspect Sherlock understood about himself was slipping away.

Yet here he was, not reaching for the needle but for his friend, longing to erase his mistakes even if some good disappeared along with it. John wanted to assure him that the skills would refresh—and they certainly would, he'd no doubt—but that was not what was truly important.

"Sherlock," he said, pulling up to the curb, "I know—you know—that you are more than your talent. The public may appreciate you for what you do, but Mary and I appreciate you for who you are." He paused as Sherlock's judgmental eyebrows raised—surely he thought the emotional confession unnecessary—but he went on. "For now, let's focus on your health. I imagine you feel worse than you're letting on, judging by the sweat peeking out underneath your hair. Let Mary nurse you back to health for the next few days, and the rest of you will tag along. Just enjoy being normal for now."

Sherlock frowned, no doubt deciding whether or not to be offended. "I don't know if you'll like the normal," he said lightly, though he opened the door without saying anything else about it.

The two climbed out of the car, but John didn't get far before Sherlock's arm flung out and blocked him from taking another step.

"What? Move, I—"

"Stay in the car." A bark from one accustomed to crime.

"Sherlock—"

He turned. "You're driving Mary to the hospital. She's in labor."

John swallowed, ready for action but unable to move. He looked towards the door as Mary came trotting out, bag dragged behind her and hand on her stomach. "How…" he started, interrupting himself by running towards her. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, we've plenty of time. Let's just get going." She pat him on the back and looked at her boys, a bit taken aback that she was the calmest among them. "Are you two?"

"Don't worry about us. Here. That's it." John placed her in the passenger seat and looked at Sherlock. "Get in."

"No, John, I don't think that's appropriate," he stuttered with much difficulty. Deduction hadn't been replaced with social grace.

John's relaxed demeanor had melted away, leaving only the raw soldier. "I wasn't asking. Not only am I babysitting you, but I'd like to have you be a part of this day. You are going to enjoy yourself and be pleasant and you are going to like it. Understood?"

His tone was such that Sherlock meekly obeyed, buckling himself in and cautiously watching John do the same as though he were afraid of getting smacked.

"She's a month early," Mary said, the first hint of panic rising in her voice.

"She'll be fine. It's fine," John said, grasping her hand and the wheel simultaneously. He slowed his breathing, swallowing as he looked at the trembling man behind him. "How did you know? How did you know she was in labor? Are your _powers_ back?" He immediately regretting the sarcasm but decided the situation dictated it to be acceptable.

"No, I—"

"We haven't picked a name yet," Mary said, ignoring the less important argument before her. "John, we have to pick a name before she's born."

"We will, we will. Sherlock?"

"Well there are plenty of names to choose from, John, but I personally—"

"Not that, you idiot." He sighed as the car slowed at a light. Okay. Panic wouldn't help in either situation here, and Sherlock looked as though he were about to faint from fear. "How did you know she was in labor? Are you better at deduction than you thought?" His tone was forced calmness, but it worked for now.

The detective looked out the window, ashamed. "She sent us a group text as we pulled up. You didn't hear it go off."

John looked at Mary, perhaps more embarrassed than the detective. "My phone's on silent."

"Your wife's eight months pregnant and you leave your phone on silent. Great. Glad to know I could have called you in an emergency." She looked back at Sherlock. "Are you okay, dear? You look pale."

"You're in labor, not me."

"John, when we get to the hospital, have them take a look at him, too. I'm sure it's just withdrawal but I want to make sure he's alright."

"I'm fine," he argued.

"You haven't said anything about me wearing a mismatched pair of shoes," she said, eyebrows raised. "Either your skills are fading or you're being decidedly polite. Neither are a good sign. You're getting admitted."

John looked at his beautiful, pregnant wife. She was good.

He looked at Sherlock. He, most assuredly, was not.


	7. Chapter 7

Rain hit the hospital sideways as the London storm grew stronger. No one bothered to move the old magazines getting a shower from a crack in the window; no one blinked as the lights flickered and the generator kicked on. All eyes were on the small creature cradled in Mary's arms.

She handed her to John, who, despite having held dozens of children in his clinic days, carried her as though she were made of thin glass. He smiled as a small whine emerged from the bundle of blankets. "Beautiful" was all he managed, and he looked at Mary with eyes full of tears before turning to the lost figure in the corner of the room.

Sherlock. He had jammed himself into the crude chair, gripping his knees against his chest in reaction to both the immense pain he was experiencing and the "miracle" of birth he'd just witnessed for the first time. He had remained silent throughout the ordeal, eyes bouncing from husband to wife, only clenching when his headache and chills intensified.

"Would you like to hold her?" John asked, though it appeared he'd never let her go. He'd spent the less intense portion of the labor begging Sherlock to accept medical care, only relenting once Mary demanded his attention. Now his eyes were softened, and all threats seemed to be retracted.

"No," Sherlock answered flatly, denying the unspoken request for eye contact.

"I'll show you how," John offered gently. "Come here."

"The first unrelated person to hold your child should not be a _drug addict_." He shot the doctor a glare and retreated into the hall, stumbling despite all attempts at composure.

John sighed and looked down at his daughter. Goodness, she was beautiful. Mary's eyes, that's for sure. Maybe his nose. He handed her back to her mother, reluctantly, and stroked Mary's hair. "You mind?" he asked.

She reached for a kiss. "Don't be long. I don't want to leave until we've chosen a name."

John found the detective battling a vending machine for a candy bar. "Hungry?" he asked, but Sherlock only shot him another glare and sat on a nearby bench in defeat.

He calmly managed to retrieve the bar and handed it over. "Go on. I haven't seen you eat yet."

Sherlock obeyed but didn't bother to unwrap it. "You should be in there, John, not out here. She might be frightened by the storm."

"Mary'll manage. I want to know why you're being such an idiot." The insult was enough to get eye contact. "You won't hold my daughter because of your drug habit, yet you refuse treatment. A little counterintuitive, don't you think?"

"They can't do anything for me here," he mumbled. "I'd either get a mundane IV tap or, if I'm lucky, a small dose of opiates. I don't want either. I don't _need_ either. The withdrawal process has only just begun, and while I'm already miserable, the best treatment will be received at home." He looked away. "I won't hold your daughter until I'm officially clean."

"Define officially."

"I'll know it when I'm there."

The two sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the crashes of lightening and the bustle of the hospital wing. "Mary and I will be…occupied…with her," John finally said, "but we will do everything we can to look after you as well. Just please be patient with us. And if you ever feel comfortable enough to interact with her, I'm sure having you around will prove helpful."

"Doubtful," Sherlock said, digging through his pockets for his vibrating phone. He slid the message open.

_Do you have John's permission to help on a case? –GL_

Sherlock glanced at John before typing a reply.

_Only with his company. He's tied up at the moment. Birth. –SH_

_Relay congrats, but will he ever be free? Huge case. Tell him I won't take my eyes off you. –GL_

John read the message and sighed. It was true; he wasn't at liberty to run around chasing criminals anymore. He and Mary had agreed, risks considered, that his life with Sherlock must be allowed to continue. But now? With a baby at home, with a wife to support?

"You're sick," he tried.

"This is distraction." Sherlock held his thumb over the screen, anxious to reply.

John shut his eyes. Okay. "You don't leave Greg's side, understand? He picks you up, he drops you off. No running around, no cases with drugs. Eat something. Home by ten. No excuses. Understood?"

"Yes, yes, understood." He quickly typed a reply and stood. Even John could see the pain radiating off his face. But maybe he was right. Maybe this is what he needed.

The doctor waited for Sherlock to get into the elevator before pulling out his phone and typing his own message to Lestrade.

_He's sick and having a hard time deducing. Keep him away from Donovan and let him think whatever he's giving you is brilliant. A confidence boost may be just what he needs. Please send hourly updates. –JW_

_ You got it. I'm officially on babysitting duty. –GL _

John put his phone away before heading down the hallway and pulling it out again.

_If he wanders off, call Mycroft first. Ankle bracelet. Don't ask. –JW _


	8. Chapter 8

John paced and glanced at the clock. 10:17. No texts. He glanced at Mary, who was nearly asleep with the unnamed child wrapped in her arms; yet, even in her exhausted state, she faithfully watched her husband worry for their other child.

The previous storm had rolled out, but a meaner one soon took its place. The flat was dim, only lit by a single lamp near his wife; several streetlamps in view had flickered off. Maybe the storm kept them away? He flipped through the earlier messages from Lestrade, wondering again if he'd missed something. Anything.

_Same old Sherlock, same attitude. No problems yet. –GL (4:02)_

_Handled the crime scene okay but didn't tell me anything we couldn't see ourselves. I told him he's helpful but he's not buying it. Never seen a man mope so much. –GL (5:07)_

_ Took him to a pub to talk the case through. Won't eat, barely talks. I even mispronounced a drink wrong and he didn't correct me. Going to keep him out though. Enjoy your girl. –GL (6:01)_

_ New scene. Cross your fingers. –GL (7:14)_

_ Sat him in the back of the car. Shivering like it's snowing outside. Jumps at every lightning strike. Bringing him home soon. –GL (8:20)_

_ Might be a bit longer. Issues. No need to panic. –GL (9:03)_

John had tried calling after that last one, but Greg hadn't answered. The last hour had been nothing but torture as he tried to balance his brimming joy for his family and the inevitably fading hope he felt throbbing in his chest. He couldn't do anything; he was obliged to stay with the girls, and a call to Mycroft would only arouse unnecessary measures with, probably, a continued custody battle. Molly wouldn't know. No one left at Scotland Yard would lift a finger to investigate. So he only waited.

10:29, a knock. John jumped up, trying not to wake his now sleeping family, and opened the door with careful expectations.

He was met by Greg's face, stress lines etched into his face from every angle, an apology written in his eyes. Sherlock leaned on him behind, body trembling and hair soaked; even with his face hidden, John could sense his anxiety.

He stepped aside silently, letting Greg pass before grabbing the detective's arm and transferring the weight to himself. He looked into his eyes. No sign of drugs. Only stress, and fear. Pure fear.

"He just needs to be put to bed," Greg said in such a way that made John immediately agree. They took him to the second bedroom and gently sprawled his lanky body over the mattress.

"What do you need?" John asked as Sherlock helplessly buried his face into the pillow and pulled a sheet over his face. He relented, guiding Greg out before turning off the lights. At least he would sleep.

Mary was awake and busy moving the baby to the crib, which John had moved from the guest bedroom into theirs. It would be occupied for a while.

He kissed her on the cheek. "Get some rest. If she wakes I'll take care of it." She nodded, only semiconscious, and let herself retreat to bed.

"I've been worried sick," John said, finally, watching Greg heave his heavy shoulders.

Greg sighed and dropped himself onto the couch. "And you don't know the half of it. Look, John, I'm sorry I didn't reply. Things got hectic, and it was better you didn't know, anyway. Nothing you could do."

"He didn't…" The doctor let himself sit, only now realizing how mentally and physically tired he was.

"No, no. I took him to the second crime scene, you know, and he _lost it_. The second he saw the body he turned white and nearly jumped in my arms. That's when I put him in the car, like I said. He calmed down, seemed okay, so I went off to tie loose ends before I brought him home. I came back to the car and he was gone."

John ran his fingers through his hair. What to ask first?

But Greg continued, knowing what to say and what to keep out. "I called Mycroft and he was able to give me coordinates within minutes. We finally found him near St. Bart's. A good five miles, I'll tell you." He sighed and leaned forward, letting his head rest on his fist. "I'm sorry I didn't keep a better eye on him, John. Really. But he didn't fight me when I found him; he was just sitting on the stairs, looking confused, glad to see me. Did everything I asked of him. I even got Molly to test him right then and there. Clean. I guess he just couldn't handle the crime scene and freaked."

It was a good five minutes before John spoke. He couldn't be mad at Greg. Couldn't be mad at Sherlock. It was this situation. Whatever _this_ was. "So he's fine?"

"Just spooked."

"What kind of case was this? You knew not to expose him to drugs, I hope."

Greg ran his hand over his jawline. "Nothing crazy. First scene we saw was just this room. No body, no mess. Just a neat circle of blood. Oddest thing, John. Precision. At least a seven on Sherlock's scale."

"And the second scene?" John asked, sensing that Greg was hesitant.

"Well that's where the body was called in. Horrible, of course, but nothing Sherlock hasn't seen before." He licked his bottom lip and looked at John. "That's the thing, though. I haven't been able to get much out of him all night, especially on the way home, but he spoke right as we pulled up to your house."

John waited.

"The body we found? It was his dealer."


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock hadn't fluttered his eyes open more than several seconds before pain swelled in his abdomen. He sat up quickly, alarmed by his new location: An unknown room, painted a calm yellow, decorated with white furniture and fresh daisies. The window was too high for him to see much out of—the tops of trees and a silent sky—and his muscles begged him not to strain for a better look.

He opted to examine himself instead. Gone were familiar clothes. Grey shirt—John's?—and clearly new boxers. He could feel his own filth contaminating the room; how long had it been since he'd had a shower? A meal? A fix?

A small scratch in his brain. Yes, he needed a dose. The symptoms of withdrawal were full-fledged now; at once he was hungry and nauseated. Achy and restless. Crawling skin and wandering mind. He rubbed his temples, fighting off a stellar migraine and the urge to vomit. Why had he ever wanted to quit?

The door softly slid open. John.

Sherlock smiled, grateful for the familiar face, but it wasn't returned. John leaned against the door, arms crossed and head down, eyes barely taking his friend in. Anger? Disappointment? No, no…Sherlock struggled to deduce, to read, to understand, but all he could pull out was the certainty of the doctor's concern.

"Where are we?" Sherlock frowned as his voice hoarsely escaped. Was this who he was now? Weak?

"Away." John moved towards the chair in the room's corner. Sat down, flipped through a book. "If my entire family is going to remain safe—and that includes you, Sherlock—I'm going to need you to be fully honest with me."

Sherlock stared, unsure how to proceed. "What did I do wrong?"

"Last night…" John sighed and leaned forward. He had to be gentle. "Last night, Lestrade told me everything. I'm sorry about your…friend. Really. I know that grief mixed in with being in the middle of breaking addiction can't be easy."

Oh. Sherlock's mind raced back to the crime scene. The corpse, recognizable yet unlike any other as the clues declined to leak off the cold skin. The storm, ominous and striking panic within his already anxious heart. His dealer, dead. Dead.

His eyes shot up to John's. "You think the dealer was killed by someone who also wishes to harm me."

"It stands to reason, Sherlock, and I can't take any chances. Not now, with my family. I saw the terror on your face last night. I can read you—I still can—and this wasn't an accident. This wasn't just a deal gone wrong. Was it?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered down and his mouth shut.

"You can read again, then?"

"No," Sherlock snapped, immediately regretting his tone. "No, I can't deduce like usual, but I'm not blind."

"Then what did you see?"

Sherlock let himself fall back into the bed. "Tell me where we are. Please."

John hesitated—only for a moment, but it was there. "Mycroft's letting us stay at one of his hideouts. We're several hours from London." He bit his lip. "Who's out to get you?"

"You of all people know the death threats I get, John, but I've none recently that warrant any extra measures. Don't panic simply because of your newly found fatherhood. I wouldn't let anyone harm you nor your family."

"See but that's it, isn't it?" John stood at the edge of the bed, his voice hard, cracking like old cement. "You're family, and someone's been hurting you."

"No one has—"

John tore the bed sheet away. "I _changed_ you this morning." He fought to keep tears in, to hide his raw emotion, but they still came. "I helped you get into clean clothes, because you were cold and shivering and broken, and I _saw_." One step forward, two steps back. "They're so…deep, Sherl…I've been in war and haven't seen cuts and bruises that…that deep."

Sherlock blinked, swallowed, the nightmare he had so long now coming true.

"Let me help you." John was now on the bed, sitting directly in front, gripping the back of his neck. "Please. I don't know who did this or when it happened but _I'm here now_. Let me help."

Sherlock pushed the arm away. What a perfect gesture for what he always did, what he'll always do. He didn't bother to restrain from yelling, despite the obvious toll it took on his body. "My marks have nothing to do with this case. They are older than you'd like to know. Pretend you've never seen them."

The doctor was crying now, struck by his frigid tone. "They're from your death, then? From when you were away?" He gripped his neck harder. "What were you doing? Why didn't you tell me?"

"There is nothing to tell!" Sherlock stood, using every ounce of energy he had before collapsing on the bed once more. "Scars come from work, John. I will likely get more. But now I am fighting this addiction, I am fighting to keep your family safe, and I am fighting to understand this case. Do not make me mourn over details that make no difference to what I must do _now_."

He grabbed the sheet with self-directed anger and retreated into the bed. "Bring Lestrade and Mycroft. I will discuss the case with them in an hour. Until then, please, leave."

John forced himself to breathe deeper, to dry his tears, to strip emotion from his voice. To understand that Sherlock Holmes would always push him away. "Do you need help getting ready?"

"I will manage on my own."

John nodded and retreated to the door.

"And John?" The doctor turned. "Spend the day with your girls. I don't want you in the meeting today."

"Sherlock—"

"It's for the best." He met his red eyes with John's. "I know what I'm doing. Trust me. Please."


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock felt warm beads of sweat slide down his forehead and deep aches seize the small of his back; yet, with the eyes of his brother and the detective inspector on him, he made every effort to appear confident.

The study was surprisingly calming and cozy, offering no windows and only the faint glimmer of several lights. He leaned into his dark green chair, smelling the faint scent of mahogany and waiting for his eyes to adjust as he attempted and failed to read the men's reactions to his quickly deteriorating argument.

"Let me make sure I understand." Mycroft tapped his umbrella absentmindedly against the hardwood floor, rubbing his temples with his other hand as he struggled to comprehend what Sherlock was saying. "You're going to check yourself into a rehabilitation center tonight?"

The detective nodded, solemnly, as one willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.

"I've known you for nearly a decade," Lestrade said, unable to hide his confused smile. "I even knew you when you were a young, stubborn, _scrawny_ addict. There's no way you'd ever admit yourself. Not even now."

"Not much has changed," Mycroft mumbled before raising his voice. "While I agree with the basis of your decision, Sherlock, an explanation is needed before you have my blessing."

Sherlock tried to suppress a glare. "I don't need your blessing. Just your assistance." He turned to Greg. "You brought the file?"

Lestrade produced a manila folder from his bag and began reading. "Peter Chalmers. Twenty-seven, recreational drug user and dealer, no living relatives other than a father currently residing in America. Found dead yesterday, a great portion of blood drained and placed in a seemingly unconnected second location." He looked up. "Anything you didn't already know?"

Sherlock clutched his back as the muscles restricted into a series of spazzes. This was no longer just withdrawal; his body was fighting against its own neglect. No food in days, minimal water, emotional strain. He had to remember to listen to John more often. If only just a bit. "No, that's him. I chose him not only for his locality but for his reputation; though in an unconventional business, he has no more enemies than the average citizen. He could be trusted to keep my…hobby...secretive."

The eldest brother shot him a glance but didn't dwell on the addiction, sure that John was more than enough a nag on the issue. "This still doesn't explain your unnatural reaction to his death. I don't care what you're going through; none of it explains last night. I was hoping I wouldn't have to use that locater on you, Sherlock. It was meant to be more of a threat, but you forced my hand."

Sherlock mechanically scratched the skin under his ankle and turned to Lestrade. "Several hours before we headed to the crime scene, I received a text from Chalmers. It unnerved me a bit, but being sleep deprived, unable to deduce, and stuck in the middle of Mary's labor, I couldn't give it the proper attention it deserved. Its weight didn't become clear until we found his body."

He slid his phone open and revealed the text.

_"You will die, Mr. Holmes, because you chose to be beaten by chemistry." –PC _

"Peter sent you that?" Greg scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry, but your drug dealer said chemistry would kill you?"

"His killer must have sent it. The universe isn't so lazy as to allow such a coincidence. The message—the threat—was left for me. Lestrade, I cannot exaggerate how important it is we find him soon."

"You're used to threats, Sherlock," Mycroft interjected. "I can't imagine your so-called recreational history has added this level of paranoia and emotive response."

The younger brother glared. "Normally I would be only mildly concerned, but there's several issues that even my diluted mind can see. He went after my dealer, meaning he's attacking the very life I'm attempting to leave. Meaning he knows me, knows my pressure points as well as Magnusson. More importantly, however, is the message itself. John said those _exact_ words to me when he took me in several days ago. Our killer has ears in John's flat, if not elsewhere. He's making this personal while showing signs of professionalism. I'm fortunate John had the sense to get us out of his home after my reaction."

The three men sat and contemplated in silence for several moments.

"So…" Lestrade ran his finger along the brim of his drink (whisky—it had been a long day). "You're afraid for John and his family? That's why you want to leave?"

"I can no longer live with them under current conditions. I know he would fight this decision if present. Explain the situation after I'm gone." The words were calculated, smothered under layers of physical and emotional pain. "As of now, this is no longer my case. Mycroft, I need you to convey the importance of this to John as well as your men. Look for security breaches. Lestrade, keep your team on the case. Nothing can happen to them."

Mycroft stood and motioned for Lestrade to do the same. "Understood. Excuse us, Sherlock, while we discuss jurisdiction and logistics."

"I can stay. I want to make sure it's done right."

"No, brother dear, you're under far too much stress, and it seems you did not receive enough sleep last night. Rest for a few hours. I'll send someone to retrieve you soon; have your things packed."

Sherlock searched for an excuse but became exhausted before finding one. He nodded and retreated into his bedroom.

It wasn't five minutes later when John Watson entered the study, called in by a text from Lestrade.

"Well?" He sat where Sherlock had been and ran a hand through his hair.

"He's convinced that your family is in danger, John." Mycroft sighed, fighting off his own exhaustion. "While I cannot completely trust his instincts at this time, Lestrade and I agree that we need to look further into it."

The doctor shuffled his weight. "Why didn't he want me in the meeting? He thought I'd panic?"

"He wants to remove himself from your guardianship. He thinks his presence an unnecessary threat." Mycroft handed over a packet. "His plan is to go to rehab. While I appreciate this development and his new effort, I think we'd all agree he wouldn't last two days. The staff, I'm sure, wouldn't put up with his antics, not to mention that I want one of us to always have eyes on him. I cannot trust strangers at this point."

"What do you suggest then?" John was pacing now, sorting conflicting thoughts running through his mind. "I agree that he's staying with me—that's nonnegotiable, whatever he says—but where can we go? I won't put my family in danger."

"I have a location in mind." Mycroft leaned against his umbrella, looking more uncomfortable than John had ever seen. "Though I warn you, while I don't care whether Sherlock is convinced or not, he will not be pleased."

"Safety is more important. Where is it?"

Mycroft bit his lip. "Have you ever visited America, John?"


	11. Chapter 11

John turned from his hotel desk and watched as Sherlock practically purred himself awake, stretching his clearly tight limbs before curling back into a ball. The detective shivered and pulled the covers up to his neck, slowly opening his eyes to the dimly lighted room. The clock read four.

"Good morning," John said gently, closing his laptop and walking towards the edge of the bed. "Or, afternoon, really. How do you feel?"

Sherlock sat up and placed a palm against his pounding forehead. "Where am I?" He blinked several times before looking at John with a most quizzical expression. "Why do I feel funny?"

John tried to hide a smile as he looked into the detective's eyes and examined the rest of his thinning frame. He looked weak but would survive. "We had to drug you to get you on the plane. You don't remember?" Sherlock's gaping mouth told him the answer was no. "You wanted to check into rehab because of Peter's text; when Mycroft suggested America you flipped out. Made a horrible scene in the airport, Sherl."

"Mm. I thought you were supposed to get me off drugs." Sherlock made a face at the demeaning nickname, leaning himself against the bedframe. "My legs are tingly."

"Yeah, we gave you four tranquilizers. It'll probably be a while before they wear off." He felt Sherlock's forehead. No sign of a fever. Just delusion. "How do you feel otherwise? You want something to eat?"

He crinkled his nose and collapsed back into the bed. "I don't want to go to America, John," he whined, the words slurring as he drifted between sleep and consciousness.

"We're already in here, you idiot."

Sherlock groaned and threw a limp hand at his doctor. "No, I don't want to go. Don't make me go."

"Okay. Okay." John fought the urge to reach for his phone and film clips for Lestrade. "You just rest."

The detective seemed willing to obey for a moment before springing up. "Allison. Where's Allison?"

"Who?"

"Allison! And Mary. Where are they?"

John stared at the man and sat on the bed, crossing his legs. He'd managed to get Sherlock to eat on the plane before passing out, and though no small victory, it wasn't enough. He was deteriorating quickly, both physically and mentally, and had apparently resorted to taking on parental roles. "Do you mean…our daughter?"

"Who else?" Sherlock let his baritone voice roll off his tongue. "Your family…"

"They're fine. Staying at Mycroft's. He and Lestrade are handling everything. We're just here to give you a break." He paused. "Allison? You named her?"

"That's what I _said_," Sherlock pouted, apparently done playing this game. "John, I won't get on the plane."

"You've already—okay." John covered his friend up and patted down the curls on top of his head. "Whatever you want, okay? You don't have to…get on the plane, or go to America, or whatever. Just take another nap for me. Can you do that for me? Then we'll do whatever you want."

Sherlock seemed to consider for a few moments before lying his head on the pillow. The doctor tightened the sheets around him and walked back to the desk, no longer hiding his smile. Times were stressful, but he had full faith in Lestrade and Mycroft to both solve the case and keep his family safe. Being away from the girls so soon seemed unfair to all parties involved, but Mary had been insistent and understanding. He sighed, knowing the next few weeks, despite the intent, would be extremely taxing. Getting Sherlock to relax without the use of drugs, recreational or otherwise, wouldn't be easy.

Seeing him like this was something of a perk. Yet John couldn't escape the reality that his friend was no longer the Sherlock he knew, and not only because of the tranquilizers.

"John?"

"Lay back down, Sherlock," John lectured, not bothering to turn around.

But even in his diluted state, the man was insatiable. "John," he whimpered again until the doctor looked his way. The younger man rubbed his hands along his forearms as though he didn't know what else to do with them; his left leg bounced nervously as he swallowed, unable to formulate his words.

"I'm here." John was again at the bedside, fearing a panic attack or crazy drug reaction as he saw the fear in Sherlock's eyes. "I'm not going anywhere." He sat, patient, letting his forefinger to rest on the detective's cold wrist as a small token of security.

A bitten lip, a set of diverted eyes. "Please don't be angry." Sherlock lifted the blanket to reveal his thin stalks of legs.

"What?"

"I lost the tracker." He touched the thin line where his hair had been rubbed out before looking away. "I didn't take it off. I don't know what happened, but I didn't—"

"Shh." John grabbed his baggage and took out the ankle bracelet. "Here. I took it off for the flight. Stop worrying about everything and _go back to sleep_."

Relief washed over Sherlock's face as he took the piece of metal and clasped it against his ankle. "I hate this thing, John," he said, placing his head on the pillow but keeping his eyes on his doctor. His voice was liquefying. "I'll put one on you, though, when I'm better. And on Mary, and Allison."

"We're not naming her Allison, Sherl."

Sherlock ignored him. "We'll all have the trackers. No one gets left behind. Not again."

"Again?" John asked, but his friend was already drifting into sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock looked out the window of their bedroom, buttoning up the purple shirt he'd found packed away in John's bag. He tried to judge which city he was in by the skyline but gave up after a few seconds; his skills were still gone, and all American cities looked similar to him anyways.

He glanced at John, who'd fallen asleep in the bedside chair sometime during the night and had yet to wake. To be fair it was only nine in the morning, and while Sherlock didn't feel like calculating the details, jetlag had to have some part in their exhaustion.

A tinge of embarrassment flooded his chest as he felt the ankle bracelet rub against his leg. Not all of the previous night's conversation had survived, but he remembered enough to know that he had been nothing but loopy and submissive.

"Sherl?" John stretched his neck and sat up, rubbing his eyebrows. "Hey. You okay?"

"Stop calling me that," Sherlock said tartly as he fiddled with his cufflinks.

John blinked a few times. "Um. Okay. Listen, I thought we could spend the day exploring a bit. Neither of us have been here before. That is if you're feeling up to it, of course. I don't want you putting any unnecessary strain on yourself."

"No."

John bit his lip and leaned forward at the snapped syllable. "I'm sorry, did I miss something?"

"You miss a lot, John, but I haven't the time to point out every detail." The detective made a dash for the bathroom but was blocked. The two stared at each other, one loathing and the other desperate to catch up.

"Hey. Enough with the attitude. What's your problem?" John snapped.

Sherlock made one more attempt to pass him but was shut down. "Do us both a favor and save the lectures for your daughter. Or stop inflicting your opinions on the world altogether."

Though John regrets it to this day, and though neither man will talk about it, the doctor swiftly wrapped a leg around the detective's ankle, twisted his wrist, and forced him into the computer chair with such a balance of power and gentleness that Sherlock lost his breath in shock.

"I said drop the attitude." John released the wrist and sat himself on the bed, unwilling to let his anger take over. He looked the detective over; he was still sick, evident from the smooth line of sweat on his forehead and the slight tremor in his hands, but he was doing everything in his power to feel composed. John sighed. "I'll ask only once more. What happened?"

Sherlock stared at a blank space on the wall, the right side of his mouth twitching as he attempted to calm his nerves. "I'm going to the restaurant downstairs. Alone. I need to clear my head." He paused at John's raised eyebrows but continued. "You have my coordinates if needed, but I won't be going anywhere. Just let me breathe."

"Oh, so I'm suffocating you."

"Yes, actually." Sherlock jumped at the bite in his own voice and looked to John for permission to continue. Of course it was there—the forgiveness in the doctor's eyes, the impeccable patience so vital in dealings with such a stubborn man as himself. "I haven't been alone in days, John. I appreciate what you've been doing, but—"

"No, I don't buy it." He shook his head. "No. I understand that your sociopathic mind needs space, Sherlock, but you never snap like that just because you're a little irritable. You're mad at me. What do you think I did? Was it last night? I'm sorry Mycroft and I gave you those tranquilizers, but you were terrified of getting on that plane. It's all we could do."

Sherlock smirked. "While intoxicating me is horrendously audacious enough, it pales in comparison to what you've been planning."

"Okay, okay." John put his hand up in an attempt to lower the volume of the sudden argument. He considered countering with the countless times Sherlock had performed experiments on him but decided pettiness wouldn't do here. "Stop being vague and tell me whatever it is you think I did."

Sherlock dug into John's bag. "I was looking for my clothes this morning," he said, practically spitting the words out, "and I found this." He produced a small manila packet, and John immediately recognized it as the file Mycroft had handed him after the rehab meeting.

"It's from your brother. I haven't even looked at it yet. What is it?"

Sherlock glared. "Don't lie to me," he said, throwing the pack to the doctor.

John removed the contents—several dozen papers of legal documentation—and read the title aloud. "_Temporary Guardianship Agreement Form_." He looked up immediately, horrified. "Oh my…Sherl, this isn't—"

The detective grabbed the papers back and began reading. "I, Mycroft Holmes, as the custodial guardian of William Sherlock Scott Holmes, effective only during mental and/or physical disability of the aforementioned person, hereby grant temporary custody of the above person, whom I have legal custody of, from myself to John Hamish Watson."

"Please. I didn't know—"

Sherlock kept reading. "In addition, in the event of an emergency of non-emergency situation requiring medical treatment, I hereby grant permission for any and all medical attention to be administered to my child/dependent, in the event of an accidental injury or illness, until such time as I can be contacted. This permission includes, but is not limited to, the administration of first aid, the use of an ambulance, and the administration of anesthesia and/or surgery."

The detective looked up, his face stone. "The only thing missing is your signature."

John struggled for air, for clarity. "I haven't signed it because I didn't know that's what Mycroft wanted. I didn't know he was your guardian, Sherlock! How was I to know this was his plan? You can't possibly think I've been attempting to get _legal custody_ of you. Do you hear how ridiculous this sounds?"

"Mycroft is my guardian. Of course he is. As the British government itself he can do whatever he likes, including forging paperwork." Sherlock was pacing now; he was torn between looking at John for attempted reading and looking away in disgust. "I should have seen it coming. How hadn't I? It's my brain; it obviously won't work without narcotics and opiates anymore. I'm no better than anyone now. I couldn't have seen it. But I should have…"

"Sherl, please, try to think rationally and—"

"You even have a pet name for me! Isn't it lovely, John? With this piece of paper, you can do what you'd like with me. Force me into therapy, into rehab, into another country. All it needs is a simple stroke of a pen and a quick notary, which I'm sure Mycroft will readily provide."

"Sherlock! Listen to yourself!" John grabbed the back of the man's neck. "Why would I need this? I can get you to do all that stuff already if I really wanted to. It doesn't matter. Your brother and I have enough power over you as is. What would this accomplish?"

The detective's eyes shifted as he searched his crumbled mind palace for an explanation. There, in the corner, he found something. "I'm deemed legally dependent. Meaning that when we return to London, there will be absolutely no reason to remove me from your household. Lestrade, Mycroft, you…every department is carefully controlled, brilliantly edited so that I have no say in where I live, where I go, what I do. Meaning that what comes next is not something I would agree to, not even at your request." He leaned forward, searching for deception within John's pupils. "What exactly does Mycroft want me to do? Do you really not know?"

The air conditioning hummed on as John leaned against the bed's headboard. "Sherlock, I have no idea. I promise you, I—"

"Shut up."

"Sherl—"

"Shut up! Oh! Oh, he would! I should have _known_, John." He grabbed his jacket and fled towards the door. "Come. We have a case to solve."

"Sherlock!" The doctor's voice was finally firm enough to gain attention. "Don't get yourself worked up. Explain."

"Chalmers, John! It makes sense now! Oh, the way it falls into place…brilliant. Too brilliant. That was his mistake."

"You know who the murderer is because of the custodial papers?" John rubbed his temples, afraid the detective had finally lost it.

"You see it too, John, you just don't observe."

"Quit it, Sherlock, just tell me. Who killed Chalmers?"

Sherlock raised his chin and put his jacket collar up—it wasn't his coat, no, but it would do. His mind palace was still in ruins, but cedar and stone began to set themselves into their rightful place. He was back. He turned to John and decided then to trust him—he had to with his new conclusion.

"Mycroft."


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock leaned into the corner of their booth, nibbling on a cracker and ignoring the glances from the restaurant's other customers. He supposed he did have to look rather pathetic; though his mind palace was making healthy advances towards renovation, the part of him that was able to hide emotions still hadn't returned. The nausea and dread he felt in his stomach was very likely plain on his face.

John returned to the table with two salads from the bar and handed Sherlock the bowl with only lettuce and croutons. He was grateful and slightly proud of managing to drag the detective down to the hotel's diner; after he almost fainted from working himself up, Sherlock was efficiently calmed, bathed, and now fed. John waited until the salad was at least acknowledged before speaking.

"You know if you want me to act on this deduction, you're going to have to prove yourself. Walk me through it. Can you do that?"

Sherlock picked at the yellowed greens as his stomach turned. "You think me mad," he said matter-of-factly, albeit quietly. "It would be the logical conclusion, wouldn't it? Recovering drug addict pegs his own brother in order to solve a case too difficult for him to handle."

The doctor's hand rested atop Sherlock's. "No. No. Honestly, Sherlock, I don't know what to believe. You haven't been yourself lately, you have to admit. But I still want to listen to your theory. No matter how outlandish it might be. You're still you."

"Mm." Sherlock looked away and was momentarily distracted by the adjacent table's accents. Slightly southern. He still had no idea what city they were in and quite honestly had no desire to find out—only to get out.

"John," he said after a moment, only then realizing that he was gripping the doctor's hand, "Mycroft knew that I'd reach this conclusion. He's betting on your negative reaction, which would be certainly understandable at this point. With your doubt raised, he could easily convince you to keep me in America longer. The signing of these papers would void my opinion on the matter."

"Hang on." John sighed, doing his best to appear at least somewhat convinced. Because he wanted to believe, sort of, that Sherlock was right. That he wasn't losing his mind, even if that meant Mycroft's record was dirtier than he'd imagined. "Why would Mycroft want you in America?"

Sherlock drowned a lemon in his water. "I haven't figured that part out yet."

"Oh. So no motive."

"Maybe to distract me from something? I don't know yet, but I know he did it, John. He had Peter Chalmers killed in order to send me a message. It was his neurotic way of saying that addiction is not a choice I am allowed to make. He has access to my flat; he could have easily heard our conversation that ended up in the text message. And these papers, John! He's doing everything in his power to strip away my options. He knows full well you'll keep me on even closer watch than this GPS tracker. Stripping my independence, John, that's what he's doing. It all ties together! Don't you see?"

John touched Sherlock's hand once more, aware of the eyes upon them. Sherlock looked down, embarrassed, and lowered his voice. "I know it, John. I'm not crazy."

"No. I know." There was an awkward silence as John searched for the right words. "Sherlock, mate, I know that your mind is superior in many ways, but…sometimes…paranoia comes with withdrawal."

Tiny pools formed in Sherlock's eyes, but he cleared them quick enough for John to question if they'd been there at all. "You don't believe me, then." He laughed as he heard the crack in his own voice. "Mycroft's already won, then. It's Moriarty all over again. He has you convinced I'm a fake."

"Alright, come on." John dropped a twenty on the table, hoping he was familiar enough with the exchange rate that he wasn't too far off the mark. Grabbing Sherlock by the arm, he gently led him to a nook in the hotel's lobby near the laundry. He waited for Sherlock to dry his tears, unable to imagine what chaos was brewing in that fractured mind. "Sherlock, I believe in you. Okay? I'm here for you and I'm going to help you through this. Why don't we go back to the room and relax. Yeah? Sound good? You're exhausted, I know, and maybe some sleep will help clear your mind."

"I've done nothing but sleep lately," Sherlock mumbled, but he leaned against the wall in defeat. "Fine. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe my mind is gone, John, but I don't think it is. Maybe. I don't know. Just look into it, okay? Please."

John nodded his agreement and led the trembling addict into the elevator. Sherlock was soon tucked away beneath sheets and pillows, his mind collapsing into sleep from the day's pressure. The doctor considered a shower but didn't want to risk coming back to an empty room; instead he straightened up his bag, read through the service menu several times, and surfed through daytime television before finally giving up and lying on his back, careful not to touch Sherlock.

"The father."

John jumped before turning over. "How long have you been awake?"

"Peter's father lives in America." He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Before you tell Mycroft that I'm completely bonkers, let me look into it. Please. Maybe he knows something about Peter that we don't."

"I wasn't going to tell Mycroft you were…" John sighed. "I called Lestrade last night while you were sleeping. They've already talked to the father. It's a done deal."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered. "Then…we could, um…"

"Please, Sherl, get some sleep."

"No, there has to be some way to figure out if—" He paused as John lifted his phone. "What are you doing? No! You can't! He'll—"

John distanced himself and put the phone on speaker, warning Sherlock with only a pointed finger. Mycroft answered on the second ring.

"I found the guardian papers," John said, refusing to break eye contact with the panicking detective. "Well, Sherlock found them, and he's come up with some pretty interesting conclusions. If you're involved in Peter's case at all, Mycroft, I need to know."

The elder Holmes sighed. "Take me off speaker, John. We need to talk."


	14. Chapter 14

It took nearly every fiber of soldier John had left to force Sherlock to wait in the bedroom while he took the call in the hallway. The rest were used convincing himself to go back in.

Sherlock looked just as John had expected, walking away as though he hadn't tried to eavesdrop through the crack in the door. His eyes shook but eyes remained steadily planted on his doctor.

"Sit," John said, his voice hoarse.

Sherlock somewhat obeyed, resting on his knees and wringing his hands. "John?" His voice wavered. "Did he convince you? Am I really losing my mind?"

Their hands met and John shushed him, climbing onto the bed from behind and slowly placing a palm on Sherlock's back. The detective tensed. "Sherlock. Did I hurt you earlier? When I forced you into the chair?" John lifted the end of the shirt just enough to see blotches of purple. "I'm sorry. I forgot. I shouldn't have been so rough."

Pushing his hand away, Sherlock turned. "I don't care about that. What did Mycroft say?" He tried to read John but couldn't come up with much. Tired, concerned, frustrated, salad not agreeing with him. Only vague concepts reached the zapped synapses, further heightening his anxiety. "John?"

John shushed him again, pools forming in his eyes as he grabbed the back of Sherlock's neck and pushed their foreheads together. Both men trembled. "You're not crazy, Sherlock. It's all going to be okay. Everything's been taken care of. I just…" John fought the lump in his throat. "I just wish you had _told_ me."

Sherlock tried to push away; John grabbed his wrist. "Told you what? John, I've kept nothing from you. Believe me. Please. What's going on?"

"I don't know what I'm feeling, Sherlock." The doctor paced, suddenly very hot. "Part of me hates you right now, and the other part…Goodness, I can't wrap my head around it. I'm an idiot. It makes sense, now, it does, and when you denied an explanation earlier I let it go. I shouldn't have. Never."

"Please." Sherlock ran his hands through his black curls and didn't let go. "Please, I don't understand. You're not making sense!"

"I know, Sherlock. Mycroft explained everything."

Sherlock exhaled, exasperated. "Explained what?"

"Why you jumped off that roof! Disappeared for two years!"

Both men succumbed to silence as Sherlock's face paled. John made a sort of grunt as he let himself collapse onto the desk chair, trying to cool and calm down. He sighed and, failing to make eye contact, talked in as quiet a voice as he could manage.

"You attributed that stunt to stopping Moriarty, but you never told me that Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and I were used as blackmail. You never told me that you risked death so that I wouldn't have to." He tried to stop his tears but talked through it. "You never told me that the reason you stayed dead for two years wasn't only to dismantle Moriarty's web, but to specifically take out those three snipers."

It was Sherlock's turn to pace, though his movements were much more erratic. He didn't bother to hide his emotion, to lower his voice. "You were never supposed to know. It wasn't important. It's not important now."

"I deserved to know! Why couldn't you—"

"John! It's over! Telling you would bring all these past issues up again, and I didn't want that. I don't want you to thank me, I don't want you to tell me that I shouldn't have. I wanted everything to go back to normal, to the way it was. And now Mycroft's told you—goodness knows why!—when we're dealing with far more important things! Did you even ask him about the papers? About Peter? You're completely ignoring what's important _now_!"

"_This_ is important now." John forced Sherlock to sit and bent down before him, placing himself in his line of sight so that eye contact couldn't be denied. "Never mind all the emotional baggage we have to wade through now. We'll get there eventually—don't think you're off the hook—but that's not the pressing issue. Sherlock, you never found the sniper that was assigned to me. You were never able to even identify him."

"That's what this is about? John, you're in no danger. Neither is your family. Mycroft has been monitoring the system and all our lives precisely. Even if he is a murderer, he would not fail on this mission." He growled and stood before John pushed him back down. "John. This isn't important now. Why Mycroft brought it up now, I have no idea. Please—I'm begging you—can we focus on Peter's case?"

"Mycroft had Peter killed."

Sherlock started. "What?"

"Yes. Because Peter Chalmers, the man you let into your life, into your flat and into your mind because of your stupid addiction, was sniper number three."


	15. Chapter 15

After Sherlock threw up several times, the boys had made their way to a bench right outside the hotel. No one was around and any view was blocked by sycamore trees and the side of a bland office building.

John handed him a coffee from the lobby and he took it gratefully. They sipped quietly, both silently missing England tea, watching the occasional car go by.

"Chalmers was loyal to Moriarty," John started. Sherlock braced himself for the explanation, part of him dying to know what the last few days had been about, the other part knowing that the explanation would only reveal his mistakes.

"After he realized you didn't know who he was, he came back with a plan. Not only would they let you watch me die, but you would be the cause of my wife's and daughter's death. Your addiction reached the papers with Magnusson's case, and he found the perfect way to get to you."

Sherlock still faced the street, silent.

"He befriended you, didn't he, while I was busy with domestic life. Convinced you that drugs were all you had now, that he could be trusted. You let him into your flat and he eventually found his way into mine. It was really him who sent you that text, Sherlock, not his killer. 'You will die, Mr. Holmes, because you chose to be beaten by chemistry.' Originally I said it in regards to the heroin, but he was talking about a different sort of chemistry altogether. Dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin. Love. Care. It was his way of warning you that he would once and for all burn the heart out of you, as Moriarty had wanted all along. The text coming during Mary's labor wasn't a coincidence. It was a warning."

The two sat in silence for a while before Sherlock's hoarse voice pierced the air. "So…Mycroft knew."

John nodded. "You had him monitoring all of us for safety concerns, but I asked him to keep a closer eye on you a few weeks ago when I noticed you might relapse. He took care of Chalmers himself; the 'elegant' crime scene you saw was his way of making his intention clear to anyone else out there who had any idea to harm us. Of course he didn't explain this to us. He thought you too fragile to know, and he was respecting your wishes not to let me know about the true circumstances surrounding your death. But he let Lestrade and Scotland Yard know later."

"Apparently my wishes are no longer respected," Sherlock mumbled.

"Yes, well, he had to explain himself, didn't he, when you tried to frame him for the murder." John sighed and rubbed his neck. "Sending us to America is just an extra safety precaution—like the GPS tracker—until he's sure everything is taken care of, though it looks as though it already is. We can go home soon."

"But the guardian forms?"

John smirked. "He's had it for ages. Thought it would make my job easier, since my caretaking responsibilities have doubled recently. Your addiction and the new threats were enough push him over the ledge and actually present it as a viable option. So you were partially right. Stripping some of your freedoms was part of his intent, though primarily in regards to your safety."

Sherlock shifted in his seat, trying to ignore his screaming muscles. "When I told you I was going to the hotel's restaurant earlier, John, I wasn't being honest with you. I was going to find some way to get a hit. No money, no contacts, but I was desperate enough to try." He looked at John out of the corner of his eyes but looked down, embarrassed. "I put you and your family in danger because of a selfish need that I've still yet to beat. I'm sorry."

John patted his shoulder. "Yes, but you also threw away your own life to save mine. You're an idiot, but we'll beat this thing together."

"I suppose I was right all along, though."

"Hmm?"

"Love. It is the most dangerous disadvantage out there."

"I was hoping the moral you'd learn would be to stay away from drugs, not—"

Sherlock cut him off with a chuckle.

"Let me ask you, though, Sherlock. When you were high off those tranquilizers, you told me you'd put my family in ankle bracelets just like your own."

"Did I?" He smiled. "I don't remember much of that night. Though it's not a bad idea."

"You said…you didn't want anyone to get left behind again. What did you mean by that?"

Sherlock sighed and looked at John. "I suppose one of the reasons I was so trusting of Peter was that I felt slightly…abandoned, by you. I wasn't sure how I'd fit in with your new family. I see now how absurd that was."

John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective was still weak, but his body and mind palace were slowly resurrecting. The will to finally fight off the addiction was strong enough that John believed the chances were good. Though Sherlock would certainly be staying with him for several more months. And signing the guardianship form might not be such a bad idea…

The ankle bracelet would probably stay on, too. Just for a little while longer. He couldn't risk anyone being left behind. Never again.

* * *

**Let me just say that I've thoroughly enjoyed writing this, but your kind reviews made it all the more enjoyable.** **This story didn't end up at all where I thought it would, and looking over it, I'm somewhat surprised you stayed with it with some of the grammatical errors and erratic updates. But I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.**


	16. Part 2

**Did you miss me?**

**Okay, so here's the deal. Several readers expressed that either A) they wanted a sequel; or B) the story didn't really seem wrapped up. After looking it over, I completely understand. Life got a bit hectic (doesn't it always?) so I tried to wrap up the story a little early, but there's still so much more to cover (Sherlock's recovery, new family dynamics, etc.)! And that's not really fair to anyone, is it? So, yeah, this is continuing on. Hopefully at least someone is excited about that…?**

**I'll be traveling in August, so updates aren't likely to be dependable that month. But otherwise I'll do my best! And I thoroughly hope you enjoy Part 2!**

* * *

Just once, John wished he could possess Sherlock's skill.

They were back in London, thank heavens, and everything was actually marvelous. All threats were neutralized, Sherlock's symptoms seemed to be disappearing, and America was in the rearview mirror.

The detective was even in a surprisingly good mood, as though Peter's case had humbled him into being agreeable. John quickly adopted an almost fatherly concern for his wellbeing, and with Sherlock's death dug back up, the doctor's affection never died off. So quite naturally the ankle bracelet stayed on, just as a precaution, and a slightly amended guardianship agreement was signed.

The only hiccup occurred when John learned that he now had a daughter named Allison.

"I'm glad you suggested it, John; it's perfect," Mary had said. "Though I wasn't too happy about the text at three in the morning."

Doctor and Detective had a very long discussion about the seriousness of textual plagiarism.

Nearly a week passed this way, filled with small talk and common household activities, ending as it normally did with the family gathered around an unwatched television. It was about then when John wished for Sherlock's skillset of reading and understanding.

The detective was peering at Allison through the corner of his eye, as he had been all day. The lightness of the week was quickly expiring; as of that morning he had refused to eat, barely uttered a word, and obeyed all of John's and Mary's requests as though an argument wasn't worth the effort. Though Sherlock was no longer ill, his health hadn't bounced back completely. He was still remarkably thin, even for himself, and seemingly permanent dark circles had latched beneath his eyes. From the twitch in his hand, John could only imagine that the need for a high was once again growing.

Mary dismissed herself and Allison at the end of the hour for bed, giving both her boys a small peck on the forehead. Sherlock didn't bother to look up.

The news continued rambling for twenty minutes before John flicked it off. "Are you ready for bed?" he asked, sounding a bit too casual.

"Fine." He picked himself up and headed for his room.

"Sherlock, wait." John fidgeted in his chair as the detective signed and returned to his seat. How long had his glance been that penetrating? That hollow? "We haven't really talked lately. I just wanted to see if you were doing okay."

"Fine." Short and mumbled. Guarded.

"No, I mean it. Really."

Sherlock's baritone words rolled onto the floor. "I haven't been using."

"I know. But times have been emotional, and talking about it would do both of us some good."

"There's nothing to talk about."

John bit his lip. The day's patience quota was dry. "Do we need a review? In this month alone I've found you high and opened my flat to you only to be denied before having to drag you back here with a tracker on your ankle. I've had a daughter and you've lost a friend. We've been targeted and relocated; I've seen you high, I've seen you drugged, and I've seen you cry. And amidst all this I've been trying to keep you clean, to keep you distracted, and you've been making even a harder effort. Not to mention that the trauma we went through years ago has all resurfaced. Don't pretend this hasn't been hard, that it isn't _still_ hard. I've been through more than enough with you to earn the right to have an honest, open conversation. I know you enough to tell that as of today, something's off. So, please, Sherlock. Tell me. How are you?"

The detective shuffled a bit but didn't say a word.

"You were fine at first. Laughing with Mary, actually eating bits of food. I know you can be moody, but what's going on?" He paused. "Cravings?"

Sherlock shrugged and looked at the ceiling.

"Okay." John scratched the back of his neck. "What can I do to help?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

A pause. "The past few days have been trying, John, but distracting. Cases, murders, travel. Even the emotional stuff, as awful as it was, provided diversion. I'm trying to fit into your family—I honestly am—but this monotony simply won't do. At least not at this stage of my recovery."

"You won't live here forever," John said, noticing the slightest flicker in Sherlock's expression. "I mean, your world will resume. Eventually. Your skills are slowly returning, and once you've been clean for a few months, you can return to Baker Street. This week's just been calm because…well, I needed rest. To be honest, though, I hadn't thought about how it would affect you. If you need more stimulation, we'll get busy tomorrow. Cases, hobbies, whatever. Just nothing crazy yet, okay? As your doctor and guardian I'm kind of responsible for you."

Sherlock offered a sad smile. "I don't mean to be a burden."

John flinched at the phrase, at everything unspoken behind it. "We've been through this, Sherlock. I'm happy to repay all the favors you've done me. It's the least I can do." He smiled and stood to head to bed. "Listen, though. Mycroft's swinging by tomorrow. I know you asked me to keep him at bay, but I can only do so much. He did sort of save our lives, you know."

Sherlock groaned and walked towards his bedroom. "As if my brother weren't smug enough already."


	17. Chapter 17

John would do it today.

It was perfect. Sherlock was clearly nervous about Mycroft's visit, slinking around the apartment like a caged lion. It could have been a number of things—the inevitable thanks Sherlock was obliged to give, the shame of still craving, the routine hatred of brotherly reunions—but what could be a better confidence boost than this?

John walked excitedly around the apartment until he found the detective curled up in the bedroom. Only three in the afternoon. He knocked and proudly announced his idea. "I want you to hold Allison."

It took a moment, but Sherlock's lanky form soon uncoiled as he sat up and, eyebrows raised, stared.

"You've been clean for, what, ten days now? I think that deserved a reward. Besides, the man who thought up the name should probably get to know her."

The detective leaned against the headboard. "No, John, thank you."

"Come on. Mary and I talked about it this morning. It'll do you good."

"I said _no_, John."

"Sherlock." John sat on the edge of the bed. "Yesterday you asked me to give you distraction. Since you're such a drama queen—yes, don't give me that look, I am too—the best distraction for you is something out of your comfort zone. Stretching."

"I was referring to case work. And you know my deal. I don't hold her until I'm officially clean."

"You're making every effort not to use. It's been almost two weeks. You're doing really well, Sherlock. All the support groups say once an addict, always an addict. Right? An alcoholic will always struggle with alcoholism, and there'll always be some degree of a fight, but that doesn't mean life doesn't get easier. You're making progress, and I'm proud. Stop beating yourself up."

Sherlock threw himself back on the bed. "I'm done talking about this."

John bit his lip. Cleared his throat. "Hey. No more attitude, remember? We agreed. Start behaving like an adult for once and let me—"

"Please get out."

John jumped at the cracking voice. He nearly snapped back but fought the urge. "Okay. Fine. I know it's a stressful day for you, Sherlock, but try to…I don't know, relax. I'll be in the living room if you need me. Mycroft'll be here by five. If you want to talk, I'm here."

The doctor left without response.

He held Allison himself, still in wonder over her beauty, her simplicity. The thing he found most amazing about her, he reflected, was the power she held over him. She could cry all night and soil diaper after diaper, squirm in his hands or be fussy with food, but he still loved her. Babies weren't innocent, he realized—they were selfish (by necessity, yes) and incredibly needy, yet his forgiveness was always right on hand. Forgiveness, patience, and love.

He loved, he supposed, the imperfect.

Predictably, Allison became bored with him and cried for her mother. John reluctantly gave her up yet gratefully leaned into the couch cushions and buried himself in the day's newspaper. The latest celebrity gossip, political unrest, potential cases offering themselves to the sulking detective. It was all welcome.

So absorbed was he that when the paper was lowered, he found a detective silently sitting on his knees before him.

"Sherlock! Don't sneak up like—"

His words fell away as he noticed the red illuminating his friend's eyes, the trembling of his hands, the tear streaks on his cheeks. Instinctively John placed a hand on his shoulder, only wanting to understand, to help, but he was shook off. Eyes tied to the ground, Sherlock's shaking fingers pulled back the silky blue robe and revealed a fresh, neat puncture mark.

John felt the lump in his throat as he kicked himself for not observing, for not _seeing_. Sherlock wasn't high now; his demeanor was cracked but too grounded. No, the crime had occurred…John searched his mind. The only window was the night. When he was sleeping comfortably and, but a wall over, a man was facing demons.

His thumb ran over the mark, gently but firm enough to feel the indent. Sherlock's shoulders fell as tears hit the carpet. "I am not _clean_," he forced with self-loathing. "I want…John. Forgive me."

The questions John wanted to ask—where the supply had been bought and hidden, whether this was the first relapse or not, what he could have done differently—fell away as his heart shattered. Instead his mind filled with plans, with distractions, with care. "Of course I forgive you. Of course."


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock fluttered his eyes and immediately felt a pang in his left arm. The scent of corduroy, the faint warmth of heat, the flickering light of a sunset sneaking through a dusty window. He groaned, put off by his groggy mind, and waited for his eyes to adjust.

John. The doctor was reading something dull and medical, propping the book up on his knee with one hand while the other rested naturally on Sherlock's left shoulder. Absorbed in his book, seemingly content with a detective half-laying on him and half on the sofa, it took a moment for him to realize Sherlock had stirred.

Quickly and timidly, Sherlock removed his dead arm out from behind John's back and attempted to sit up, but John's hand kept him down. "You're fine," he said gently, though his eyes didn't leave the page.

Sherlock paused, uncomfortable with how _comfortable_ he felt, and returned his head to John's ribs. His mind wasted no time in reminding him of his mistake, of his failure, and quite involuntarily he let out a whimper.

"You're fine," John said again, abandoning his book. "It's all fine."

"John…I…"

"Do you want some tea?" The doctor gently maneuvered his way up and towards the kitchen. "Kettle's just boiled. I won't take no for an answer, either. Your eating habits are worse than normal."

Sherlock felt his head. Pounding. Swimming. "John."

"I'll make you some toast, too, if you'd like. I'd really appreciate it, actually. Mary's running some errands with Allison, and I promised her I'd feed you up before she gets back."

"John."

He stood against the doorframe and cleared his throat. "Don't, Sherlock. Please. I don't want any more apologies. If we're going to talk about it, you're giving me answers. Not just excuses."

Sherlock looked at the floor but nodded.

Tea and toast were served and half consumed before John began. "Where'd you get it?"

Sherlock swallowed another bite and felt it scratch its way down his throat. "Chalmers," he said, his voice low, barely audible. "When you confronted me the first time…with the jeans? I told you it was in the dresser. I had another supply underneath the bed."

Crossed arms, plain face. "There's more?"

"No, I swear." Sherlock stretched out his legs, desperate to make the feeling of smallness go away. "I wasn't planning on using what I had. It was just there for, I don't know, control. Just in case."

"Why did you do it? Why last night?"

The detective flinched. "I thought you said you'd forgiven me."

"Doesn't mean we're not going to deal with it. Why last night?"

Sherlock watched as John leaned back. He wasn't intimidating, not even angry. Just concerned. Trying to understand. Frustrated? Maybe. "Part of our original deal was that you wouldn't ask me that question," the detective bit. "It's the only reason I left Mycroft's."

John sighed through his nose and stood as there was a knock at the door. "Right, speaking of. I'll be searching your room and the rest of the flat, if you need me. Meanwhile you and your brother can have a chat."

"But…" Sherlock sprang up. "John, you just said it was fine. That you'd help me. You can't just—"

"This is helping you. I'm keeping you accountable. I care about you, Sherlock, and that means I'm not going to trust everything you say. So I'm searching the flat. As for your brother, you're both more than overdue for a conversation." He walked towards the door. "I don't get you. You can fall asleep bawling into my arms, but you can't have hold a blunt conversation. I can't play nice anymore, Sherlock. You're getting the boot camp version now."

Sherlock's chest fell as his brother entered the flat and John excused himself for the drugs bust.


	19. Chapter 19

Mycroft sat himself in John's chair as Sherlock retreated towards the window. "Last night, was it?"

"Yes, we know." Sherlock flung himself around, letting the tail of his robe swoosh around his hips. "The master of deduction you are, Mycroft. Much better than me; it's not even a contest. By the tenseness of my arm and the look in my eye you can easily assume I relapsed not but twelve hours ago. Could you read in my gait, too, that John's spare bed has a horrendous lump on the right side? Surely."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, a little too gently, but the tirade continued.

"The tea stain on my right sleeve shows that, yes, I've been drinking, but the position shows how forced it was. John insists—of course he does, he always does, and a deduction assuming it would be him who forced food upon me would be child's play—and previous deductions show that, no, I have not the energy to fight with him. So already you know that I've slept awfully after a quite disappointing high, only to be force fed upon awaking."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and rested his chin on his fist. "Who said anything about disappointing?"

"You didn't, no, but you've read it. No great mental challenge there. It would have to be disappointing, wouldn't it, to relapse with a hidden supply. I haven't been back from America all that long, so the quickness with which I returned to my habits shows how feeble I've been all along. Ah, but I waited nearly a week, didn't I? Meaning I was off to a fairly good start, then, but something happened. Cause and effect, yes? Elementary deduction work. This is a chemical problem, you see—of course you see—yet not the only reason to warrant such a pitfall. No, my demise is primary psychological, then. You must have worked through the list of events I've endured and attempted to choose one as a chief stressor. You're not the sentimental type, obviously, so balance of probability would suggest that you nonetheless concluded that it is only chemical warfare raging in my mind, but you're wrong. Look at the way I pace, the way I talk to you now more than ever before. Yes, it was last night that I relapsed. Because what high functioning sociopath who wrongfully accused his brother of murder and bites at his doctor for just trying to help wouldn't continue to shoot up? Especially when the doctor in question has been so mind-blowingly helpful and the brother has saved the addict in more ways than one."

The detective let out an exasperated groan and threw himself into his chair, picking at his eye as though a mere eyelash was causing discomfort. He let himself catch his breath before continuing in a much calmer fashion. "So let's not play games, Mycroft, not even deductions. You know everything there is to know; the only question is whether or not you'd like a thanks or an apology."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows once more.

"I'm still your brother. You can hardly expect both."

The elder Holmes smiled for the first time and leaned into his chair. "I'm glad to see your skills are returning. Though you did miss the ink mark on your ankle, above the tracker. Trying to pry it off with a pen, are we?"

Sherlock glared for a moment but was unable to hide the slightest hint of a smile. All was forgiven.

"I won't lecture you on your habitual return or your jumping to conclusions on sensitive cases, Sherlock. I trust Dr. Watson is nagging you more than enough. I only want to warn you not to try his patience. Both the tracker and the guardianship form…well, I don't put it above him to use either."

"That's all you're here for?" Sherlock brought his knees to his chest, knowing that Mycroft would quickly see the signs of fatigue, of craving. "An email would have sufficed."

"Oh, well, one other triviality." Mycroft stood to go and saw himself to the door. "While I pride myself on discretion, I'm afraid your habit—free from the press though it remains—has reached a very interested third party."

Sherlock's face fell. "Not…"

"I'm afraid so. I'll send John the details, Sherlock, but do try and remember your manners when our parents have you over for dinner."


	20. Chapter 20

The detective didn't bother to remove his scowl as John forced him into the suit, and he didn't waste energy lifting his eyes as the doctor shuffled him into the cab. It took John four attempts at starting conversation before Sherlock conceded to utter a syllable, and three times after that before full sentences came into play.

"You look well." The effort was a lame one on the doctor's part; Sherlock did not, in fact, look anything close to well. He somehow managed to lose at least two pounds a week despite being literally force-fed twice a day; his eyes were now quite sunken into his skull, only appearing lifelike from the deep red of being bloodshot. His mood had admittedly improved in recent weeks as John offered cases and puzzles, but the emotional high was inevitably followed by unmatched lows. Fingers tapped and teeth grinded against teeth more than usual as their cab made its way through the damp London streets.

Sherlock ignored the comment and watched drops of rain collide with pavement as the car stopped at a light. "I don't want to go," he said after a moment.

"Yes, I know, but there's no getting around it. Your parents are concerned. Seeing them will do you some good." At worst, the visit would send Sherlock into a plummeting tantrum for the next week; at best, parental care would provide the final push into recovery. "Your mother sounded excited on the phone. They're anxious to see you."

"Excited? My mother nearly burned London to the ground when I last relapsed."

"Oh?" John cleared his throat. "And when was that?"

"What?"

"You know. When was the last time you…reverted?"

"Trivial detail, John. Can't we just go home?"

"Sorry." John cleared his throat again, probably for the tenth time that morning. "For the record, though, I don't think it's trivial. I think understanding the past can change the future. But if you don't want to talk about it, we don't have to. Not right now."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "I'm getting better. At reading people. Observing."

"Yes, Mycroft mentioned your little tirade. That doesn't really relate to—"

"I can't turn it on and off like the tap, you know. It's not a magic trick. It's just observing, noticing the things around you. A lack of ignorance." The detective watched two grey clouds merge into one. The rain was picking up. "There's no reason to _lose_ it. Nothing to lose, really. Even though some details are resurfacing, I don't understand why they were hidden at all."

John shrugged. "Remember what I told you from the start. Your mind and body are weak; it makes sense that some of your finer skills would suffer."

"That's just it." Sherlock turned to face him for the first time that morning. "My parents have seen me relapse again and again. I've put this body through all kinds of torture, John. I've felt disappointment and regret and physical pain. Withdrawal, pain, thoughts of suicide…none were above me. Sometimes they still aren't. But though I've walked through the darkest of places, my mind's always been a constant. What's different this time around?"

John put his hand atop the one pinching his sleeve. What to say? That it didn't really make sense, that he just didn't know? Sherlock's skills were evidently good enough to see John's dilemma, and he quickly turned again towards the window.

It wasn't long before the silent cab pulled into view of the faded red and green home; the house, quaintly nuzzled against England's rolling hillside, offered only heavier rain and a hastily tensing detective.

"It'll be fine," John said, voice low.

"How would you know?" It wasn't bitter, wasn't angry. The words were soft. "You've never disappointed anyone." He heavily climbed out of the car and walked—limped, really—towards the door. He knocked and turned back towards his doctor. "You know what the worst part is? They're going to open that door and offer love and hugs and Band-Aids. Do you know what guilt that brings? How much easier it would be to be yelled at; punishment for mistakes is much easier to swallow than grace."

John watched as his friend entered the house, knowing this was only true for those who weren't accustomed to such a gift.


	21. Chapter 21

The room was warm, filled with thick red fabric and glowing candlelight, roaring fireplaces and surprisingly charming family portraits. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes talked of nothing but joy, of fond memories and proud parental moments, but Dr. Watson was always the only one to respond.

Sherlock lumped himself into the corner chair, the furthest from the fireplace, despite his obvious shivering. He nodded politely to everything that was said and even let his father hug him; weak attempts at grins were offered and, rarely, even the occasional syllable was uttered, but nothing more.

_He was getting thinner._ John knew the thought was redundant, but the thinning frame which seemed at its limit only shrunk each day. And here, surrounded by love and support and the most picturesque of scenes, the detective had never looked so small.

"Do you remember that time, Sherlock, that time it snowed on your birthday? You and Mike threw snowballs at each other and sled down that hill like nothing mattered in the world. Couldn't have been more than ten years old." Mrs. Holmes smiled to herself and put an ignored hand on her son's wrist. "Hopefully this Christmas we'll see something similar."

Sherlock clutched his cup of tea and took his first sip of the evening. John watched, miserable, as the man skillfully bounced any contact away. Nothing was allowed to penetrate his private world—even worse, it seemed that the chosen route of focusing on the positive wasn't helping.

But if Sherlock got his genius from anyone, it was his mother. She turned to John, invited him into the kitchen, and spoke mutedly as she eyed the door. "I know what you're thinking," she began. "We know what we're doing; trust me. Give it time. When Sherlock was just a boy, discipline wouldn't do. Most stubborn child in this world, I believe, and I'm certain you can trust it. But ignore the problem and act as though everything is fine? He couldn't stand it. Sooner or later he'd just burst. Sometimes by crying or yelling, but usually with a meek apology and plea for resolution. He'll come around, John, and tell us everything he needs to. There's no point in asking, is there, when we don't even know what needs to be said."

The right side of John's mouth curled into a smile. Sherlock certainly was the type that couldn't cope with an unfinished melody; it stood to reason that leaving things unresolved would compel him to cooperate. "Sometimes I think I'm the only one in the world to understand him," he confessed. "I forget that you and Mr. Holmes know him better than I do."

"I wouldn't go that far. That mind's an odd one—beautiful, yes, a gift to us all, but odd. He's been this way since day one and I've yet to fully understand what's going on in that funny head of his. Even more so, I can't begin to fathom why he's chosen to open up to you. Accepting care, letting someone in…it isn't exactly Sherlock, John. Whether I should count you blessed or cursed, I can't tell."

They shared a look, knowing that they were part of the elite group granted access into such an enigma. "What was his childhood like, if you don't mind me asking?"

Mrs. Holmes laughed and busied herself with the kettle. "Oh, John, you don't want to know the half of it. The teacher's notes, the detentions, the fights. Never fit in, of course. No surprise there, the poor dear. He eventually convinced himself that he didn't like people. That's what we do, isn't it? We pretend we don't want what we can't have.

"So I was there for him as much as a mother could be, as was his father. We had Mycroft already, you know, and with the eight year difference…well, Mike could relate to Sherlock more. No two people were ever more similar nor more different."

"But they can hardly be in the same room," John said.

"I should think not. Sherlock never got over disappointing his older brother, and Mike didn't have the tact to explain that he still cared."

"Sorry. Disappointing?"

Mrs. Holmes washed her hands and joined John at the table, resting one of her hands on his. "I forget that you don't know. Sometimes I think you know everything there is to know about him."

John waited.

"You know he's struggled with addictions like this for ages. Since he was fourteen, actually. He'd blame boredom, or the rejection from school, but I think that really he just didn't know how to handle emotion. That mind is fragile, John, and he chose to treat fire with fire. What is the pang of denial compared to a chemical high? It was escape. It is escape. Why he started using again, I don't know."

"Mycroft was angry with him for succumbing to such a low habit," John reasoned.

"Well, sure, that was part. I don't think Mycroft had the same emotions as Sherlock. He could handle them better somehow. Of course he didn't approve of the drugs, but…" She paused as if just now remembering how personal the story was. Her voice lowered to just above a whisper as the slightest moisture filled her eyes. "When Sherlock was seventeen, things got to the lowest I've ever seen. Mycroft found him attempting to…"

John squeezed her hand, knowing the end of that sentence but not able to process it himself. Sherlock had mentioned suicide before, but to actually attempt it?

He hadn't known. What would he have done differently had he just known…

"Mycroft was always the one who found him, somehow. We did what we could," she continued, now composed. "It happened again when he was twenty-two, then…well, not too long before he met you."

"Mrs. Holmes, I…" He cleared his throat and blinked a tear away, humbled at the weight of her statement. "I don't know what battles he's facing right now. He won't let me in, but I'm knocking. I can only hope that one day he'll answer. But know that I will never stop trying to reach out, to help. If that involves being gentle or screaming, fine. Whatever it takes. You have my word."

She squeezed his hand back and let herself smile. "If anyone can help him, it's you."


End file.
